


Niemand außer mir weiß was du willst

by HouseofAustrich



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Anaphylaxis, Dark Comedy, Darkfic, Drowning, F/M, Gorn, Hand & Finger Kink, Knives, Morbid, Panic Attacks, female reader/ not named, hand gore, tags get updated as i post
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-16 06:39:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17544629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HouseofAustrich/pseuds/HouseofAustrich
Summary: “What’s this?” He asks, eyes alight.“Oh! Um... You mean my scar?” The girl goes red in the face. “I’ve always had that…”She stares at him, and for a moment, Strade practically sees the gears turning in her head as she thinks about telling him how she got it.“I have others elsewhere,” she says instead, sliding her sketchbook back across the table.Strade laughs in response. She joins him, a soft giggle. He imagines that giggle turning into a scream over the noise in his head. Her nails in his back, her blood on his hands. He grips the booth seat under the table.





	1. The Martini Shot

He almost misses her the first time he looks. She’s hidden in the back in a booth stuck between two walls with her head down, framed smaller by the table and her posture. Every so often she looks up; he thinks she’s waiting for a companion. He changes his perspective while he watches her, rotating around the bar as evening turns into happy hour, then happy hour into night. Nobody arrives.

At this point, the Braying Mule is beginning to empty out, happy hour drunks stumbling as they say good night to coworkers, old friends, and Saturday night binge buddies before heading to the safety of home. Strade is not interested in any of them, but the young woman in the booth is still alone, and that he _is_ interested in.

He buys his second beer of the night and saddles up to her from the right, taking care to use the smile that he knows the women in his neighbourhood, married or not, all adore when he mends their roofs, cuts their grass, or makes small talk from across the fence while raking leaves in the brisk Canadian fall.

As he gets closer, he realizes just what she’s doing. There’s a sketchbook lying against the edge of the table; She’s drawing. He realizes then that she has earbuds in her ears, and from the ever so slight twinge of music he can hear over the white noise of the bar, he assumes she can’t hear anything but.

He eyes her sketchbook over her shoulder. She’s made rough sketches of the other patrons, loose lines converging over hazy shapes to suggest forms. She’s people-watching as much as he is. He notices she’s sketched him at some point when he was watching, a profile shot. It’s pretty good—sharp angles and hard pencil presses to form dark lines. She’s even got his scar. Maybe he’ll keep it.

He taps on her shoulder and she jumps half a mile, rushing to pull the earbuds from her ears.

“Oh! I’m sorry! Were you talking to me?”  She looks surprised to see him, quickly glancing down at her sketchbook. He can feel the nervous energy radiating from her like a beacon.

“No, it’s my fault.” Strade replies, giving her the award-winning PTA smile. She relaxes, shoulders dropping.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he continues, taking a glance at the belongings with her. She’s got a backpack stuffed in the corner with the insignia of the local college, **_“Arts Program”_ ** written in bold underneath. “Are you an artist?”

“Oh… um, yeah.”

She’s young; he guesses the same age as Ren if not a bit older, but she’s reserved compared to him. It might be a challenge to lower her guard, but the idea is interesting. He’s good at acting, and hasn’t failed yet.

“My name is Strade.” He tells her, smoothly sliding into the opposite booth at the table. She gives him a small smile, polite and formal as she gives her name in return.  She’s got the air of someone raised “proper”; stifled, nervous, and itching to run free. She’s not the first, and he doubts she’ll be the last to meet him here, half drunk and reckless. _A fatal mistake._

“What’cha drinking?” He asks, motioning to her glass with a tilt of his head. It’s still full, barely touched. She follows his gesture, picking up the glass and taking a sip.

“Rosé cider by some guy named Michel Jodoin.”

He blinks at the name and recognizes the drink. It’s from a cider house in Quebec, and from what he thought could only be bought there. He hasn’t had it in years, with the last time being when he briefly lived in the province before moving to his current address. He’s not sure what the Braying Mule is doing with it, because he’s been going here for years and he hasn’t seen it once on the menu.

“Good choice,” he tells her, and she smiles.

“I was surprised they had it; I’ve only had it once when I was visiting family and I liked it, so I bought it.”

He laughs, and she quirks her mouth as if proud of herself for making him.

They make small talk for the next hour.  He knows the script, even if she doesn’t. He drinks his beer slow, buying her another cider while he continues to question her. The more she drinks, the more receptive she becomes to his questions, spilling more of herself out into the open light of the bar. She’s currently enrolled at the local college and lives alone in a rented flat near campus. Her parents are divorced, and she doesn’t talk to her father. She takes the bus to school, walks everywhere else. She thought about going to university — wanted to go to the big fancy one three cities over — but it was too expensive, so she’s in art, working herself to the bone as a graphic design student while taking freelance commissions on the side to make ends meet. She’s not dating anyone. With each answer she gives, he’s more certain this is the most conversation she’s had in a long time; she’s practically  _ dying _ for him to talk to her.  

She asks him questions in return and he answers back; some true, most false. He lives with a roommate in the nicer part of town. He thinks that his roommate would probably like her, since she has a pin from his favourite cartoon. He mainly makes his money by being a handyman around his neighborhood, but has always had a passion for making movies. He’s not into dating, but if the right girl came along, maybe he’d change his mind. She asks about his accent, he tells her he was born in Germany.

He buys her another drink and asks to see her sketchbook. When their hands brush while she passes the book, he can tell he’s got her in his hands.  Her posture has shifted forward, knee pressing against his under the table while she smiles and follows his every word. From another point of view, he imagines they look quite different. A couple on a date perhaps, lit by dying light and whispering against a backdrop of bar goers.

The sketchbook is mostly filled with life drawings; a body farm of naked figures litter the pages. The women are drawn with a particular attention to detail, a certain focus given to the breasts. _Is she self-conscious about her tits?_

“So, what’s a beautiful girl like you doing alone at a bar on Saturday night?” He finally asks the million-dollar question.

“I asked some of my classmates to come out… but they all ditched at the last minute.” She takes a sip of her cider, looking uncomfortable.

“Sorry to hear that,” he responds.  An act of kindness.

She blushes, tucking her hair behind her ear. Strade spots a scar across the side of her neck, medical sutures years closed. He leans in across the table, interest eating at his bones.

“What’s this?” He asks, eyes alight.

“Oh! Um... You mean my scar?” The girl goes red in the face. “I’ve always had that…”

She stares at him, and for a moment, Strade practically sees the gears turning in her head as she thinks about telling him how she got it.

“I have others elsewhere,” she says instead, sliding her sketchbook back across the table.

He tries to imagine where, casting a heavy gaze down her body. She’s covered from head-to-toe in a thick sweater dress, giving no clues. He can see himself ripping it off her in another shot, knife in hand while he searches. _Her arms? Thighs maybe? Who gave them to her? Why would they? Did she do it herself? Does she cut herself to let the pain out?_ Her moaning, _gasping_ , while he carves into her flesh. _Does she enjoy the feeling of blades on her skin?_ He can feel excitement brimming in his stomach.

“I’m sorry, that’s... probably the cider talking.” She apologizes, interrupting his thoughts. Her face is red from his staring. _Schüchtern_.

Strade laughs in response. She joins him, a soft giggle. He imagines that giggle turning into a scream over the noise in his head. Her nails in his back, her blood on his hands. He grips the booth seat under the table.

“What about you?” She breaks his thoughts apart, drawing him back into the current setting with her question. Her gaze is on his jaw.

“Oh, this?” He says with a grin, gesturing to where his scar runs up to meet his chin with his hand. She nods, curiosity plain on her face.

“I got this from a drunk neighbor wielding a cement trowel.” He smiles, feinting the look of someone telling an embarrassing story.  He’s lying through his teeth. She nods again, looking slightly impressed and more than sympathetic.

He looks at the table. Her glass is near-empty.

“Do you want another?” He offers, motioning with a jerk of his thumb towards the bar. He watches as she thinks it over, eyes steady on her face as she checks her phone.

“Thank you, but I...Uh, I should probably be getting home.”  She says awkwardly, like she’s sorry she has to leave. She clumsily goes to gather her things, but doesn’t move to get up.  An actor waiting for her cue, she’s staring at him, dark eyes on his scar, biting her lip like she wants to ask him a question. One that she likely thinks is indecent of her...

“Want to get out of here?” He asks.

He knows full well it’s the booze making her bold, because this previously mousy girl who was people-watching instead of living would surely never get into a car with a stranger; a stranger with _intentions_ for her.

He pays the tab while she fumbles her stuff. When they leave through the front door, he takes her bag, sliding his hand over the small of her back as he leads her to his car.

_Tonight has been easy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of German:
> 
> Schüchtern - Shy
> 
>  
> 
> A side note; if you're wondering about the chapter's title. The Martini shot refers to the last shot of the day when filming in a production, after which filming is done (so it's time to crack open a martini and go home).


	2. Augen Auf!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eyes open, because ready or not; it's torture time

She wakes with a pounding in her head and a stiffness in her knees. She groggily opens her eyes.

She’s not in bed.

Strade is nowhere to be seen.

She takes a moment to assess her surroundings. She’s in a dark room illuminated by a dim light source somewhere behind her. She can see stairs hiding just behind a wall to her left… That means she must be in a basement. The room looks like a carpentry workshop based on the hardware tools and cabinets along the other wall in front of her. She goes to move, but finds her arms locked behind the pole she’s leaning against. She tries to control her breathing, stomach beginning to twist in fear. A quick flick of the wrist suggests zip-ties from the way they chafe and scratch her wrists. There’s nothing near her that she can use to free herself.

 

She panics.

 

“Strade? Strade!.... Help!”

She hears sudden movement above her, the sounds of a person—two people?—walking around. One is heavy, the other light and scurrying before it disappears. The basement light flicks on, instantly blinding her. There’s the sound of a heavy door opening and boots on wooden stairs. Strade steps into her view, a pleased smirk on his face. He looks the same as last night, still dressed in the same clothes, but the brighter light of the basement reveals just how greasy he actually looks.

“Good morning! How’re you feeling?” He greets her. She stares at him in silence, trying to process the situation. _What the fuck is going on?_

“Not so good, huh? You probably shouldn’t drink so much then.” Strade scrunches his nose, looking amused. “Do you want something to eat, maybe drink before we begin?”

“Strade, where am—“ She starts to ask, but he tuts her, cutting her off.

“I asked you first. Answer me, then I’ll answer you.”

She never really feels like eating when she wakes, and with the current knot forming in her stomach, isn’t sure if she should. However, her mouth is dry—parched like a desert. She nods.

“Something to drink…? Please?”

Strade grins and turns on his heel, stalking over to the fridge in the corner of the basement. The fridge fan hums noticeably when he opens the door. He bends, disappearing, before she hears the sound of cans clinking together from inside.

“Beer?” Strade asks, popping his head up from behind the door. He holds up a can.

“Um… could I… maybe have some water, please?” The thought of drinking more alcohol makes her head hurt.

Strade’s expression doesn’t change. Only a slight crinkle around the eyes as he dips his head back behind the fridge door, followed by more sounds of things being moved. He closes the fridge and comes back with a water bottle—generic superstore brand, the kind her family buys. He unscrews the lid and bends down, lifting it towards her mouth.

“Ready?” He prompts.

“Wait! Can’t you unti—” She goes to speak, but Strade tips the bottle down. She tries to swallow fast but chokes, sputtering. She can feel water sinking into her sweater as it keeps coming, cold and icy on her skin. She forces herself to down the rest, even with her lungs burning in irritated protest.

“Where am I?” She coughs as Strade pulls the bottle away.

“Well, after how well we were getting along last night, I thought I’d bring you home... Willkommen.” He responds nonchalantly, smirk spreading wider across his face.

She tries to remember the night before, tries to remember why she would agree to being tied up in his basement versus his bed; she can’t remember anything after leaving the bar. It’s all a hazy void. _… Did we… get kinky? Oh fuck, was I drunk enough to suggest this?_ It’s the question she wants to ask—the answer she would _love_ to hear—but her gut tells her it’s not the right one. She follows the line of Strade’s body down to the floor while she thinks, noticing the splotches of maroon that coat the concrete under his combat boots...

 

“Oh _fuck_ , is that blood?”

 

Strade laughs bluntly. She looks up, eyes immediately settling on the hunting knife now in his hand. He steps closer. _Oh Fuck!_

“Wait! Wait, what are you—“ She stammers.

He bends down, grabs her sweater dress, and begins to cut it with the blade. She tries to pull away, but can’t go far with her arms zip-tied together behind the pole. The plastic digs into her wrists, thin cuts forming along the soft flesh. She grits her teeth, body spasming in anticipation of pain each time Strade’s knife runs against her skin as he rips her clothes from her, hurriedly and carelessly.

 

Strade pulls away once finished, taking the tattered remains of her clothes with him. He’s allowed her to keep her bra and underwear, but that doesn’t keep her from feeling the most exposed she has ever felt. She shivers, the concrete under her legs and the metal pole against her spine comparable to ice.

She grinds her teeth, breathing through her nose as Strade circles her. His gaze is heavy, expression hungry. She feels a little bit like an animal of prey, cornered and waiting to be slaughtered by some stronger hunter. She doesn’t want to think about what’s going to happen to her, but her brain reminds her that taxidermy is a thing anyways, and that she could potentially end up like _Norma fucking Bates_ in Strade’s basement—some shitty skeleton for him to molest, a souvenir of a great kill.

“Your scars…” He speaks finally, sounding… _disappointed? Annoyed maybe?_ She isn’t entirely sure what to think, but she can tell he isn’t happy. He plays with the knife, ceiling light reflecting from the blade as he turns it over restlessly in his hand.

“I-I got them…. through medical…” She struggles to explain, to say something—anything—that could turn the situation to her favor, but she’s never been very good at speaking, _especially_ when under stress. If anything, she tends to put her foot in her mouth and say weird shit. Strade narrows his eyes, his grin smaller on his face while thinking.

“I thought you’d have more… But we can still fix this~” He interrupts suddenly and twists his hand, pointing the blade back towards her as if he just had the world’s greatest idea. She feels all the blood draining from her limbs, nerves going numb.

“W-Wha..” She can’t seem to find the right words, brain running a mile a minute.

 _Run!_ She tries to move, tries to squirm away—but it’s pointless. She can’t run because she’s still tied to the pole.

“You did say you wanted another one, right?” Strade laughs, stepping forward again.

 _Cry!_ She can feel hot tears begin to streak her cheeks, but that only seems to encourage him. He crouches, bringing the knife down to her chest. He presses the tip to the scar that starts just under her bra strap, curving across where her breast and chest meet. She bites her lip, a sob building deep in her throat.

 _Beg!_ “Plea-Please don’t hurt me…” She whimpers.

 _Do something! Anything!_ Her brain keeps screaming, but there’s nothing she can do— isn’t sure what she can do.

“Have you ever screamed for anyone before?” Strade murmurs to her, the intimacy of his tone making her skin crawl. He presses the knife into her flesh, watching as she screams in pain.

The knife digs deeper, meeting resistance as it scrapes against the rib that lies underneath, second from the top. Her bra turns red from the rivets that run down her skin from the cut.  Her whole body is trembling as Strade pulls the knife away. She tries to breathe to steady herself, but Strade gives her no time, immediately changing positions to cut her elsewhere.

Her legs shake, every muscle spasming with fear. Strade presses his hand to her right leg, warm and clammy against the skin of her inner thigh. She bites her lip as he strokes her skin with his thumb. She doubts he means it to be comforting. He looks at her, his face flushed and panting, as he lowers the knife to the top of her leg.

“Please, no mor—” Her plea dies in her throat as Strade gouges into her thigh with the knife. She shrieks loud enough to make her brain pound, begging her to be quiet. She sobs as Strade pulls away, trailing his fingers through the steady bleed coming from the gash in her thigh.

“You’re bleeding...” Strade pants, pushing his hair back from his face with his bloody hand. Her head spins when she tries to look at the cut, feeling light-headed from the amount of blood trickling down her thigh.

“Won’t last long like that,” he continues, wiping her blood from the knife onto his pants. He tilts his head, giving her a teasing look.

“Do you want me to patch you up~?”

She looks at her leg again, then back to Strade, nodding her head weakly.

Strade smirks and stands, tucking his knife back into his belt before turning and walking to the cabinet behind him. He opens one of the overhead cabinets, pulling out a small red first aid kit, before closing it again and bringing the kit over. He kneels next to her once again, humming as he prepares.

“Ready?” He says, holding up a needle and medical thread.

“Y...Yes.” She replies, deciding to focus on Strade rather than the needle. She’s never liked needles.

Strade smirks, pressing the needle through her skin as he starts to stitch her thigh up. She grits her teeth, discomfort in every fibre of her being as she tries to not focus on the stitching, on the way the needle feels piercing her skin.

She chooses to focus on Strade again instead, specifically on his face. Her blood is on his forehead, smeared into his hairline from his hand earlier. His amber eyes narrow while focusing on her leg; either he’s focused enough that he doesn’t notice her staring, or just doesn’t care. His jaw is set, a hint of a smirk still ghosting his lips. He’s still handsome and she fucking hates it—hates that she fell for his ruse. That she fell for what she thought were kind eyes, a caring smile—someone to be safe with, disarming, who wouldn’t hurt her. Strade still has those features, but they’ve mutated in the basement, becoming wrong on his face… _He’s hurting her and enjoying it._

She feels him tighten the stitches in her thigh and twitches when he pulls out his knife to cut the thread.

She eyes his scar. He said he’d gotten it from a neighbour wielding a cement trowel… She’s willing to bet now that he was lying. She’d bet her entire fucking college tuition.

Strade moves his hands to her breast and she flinches, face growing warm. Strade locks eyes with her immediately, smirking as he barks out a laugh. She blushes and swallows, feeling nervous and a little embarrassed.

“Ich werde gut sein.” He promises, breath hot on her face. He smells like cheap beer. It’s disgusting.

She looks away, ears burning, wincing as he presses the needle back into her skin to restitch her old chest scar closed. He pulls away when finished, cutting the thread and putting everything back into the medical kit. When he douses her stitches with rubbing alcohol, she closes her eyes tight in a bid to not cry.

Satisfied, Strade stands, tucking his knife back into his belt before straightening his shirt. He returns the medical kit to the overhead cabinet, then turns to give her a once over. He bites his cheek, eyes bright as he takes in the look of his patchwork stitches—red, raw, and angry in her skin.

“You should probably get some rest, buddy~” He tells her with a grin before heading to the stairs.

“Wait... Come... back…” She weakly calls out after him, but Strade doesn’t return. As much as he might hurt her, she doesn’t want to be alone in the dark.

Regardless of her opinion, she’s plunged back into darkness with the sound of the basement door closing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, if you like what I'm up to, feel free to leave me a little comment if you feel up to it; I love to hear people's opinions.  
> For example, tell me your favourite line.
> 
> Translation of German:  
> Willkommen - Welcome  
> Ich werde gut sein - I'll be good


	3. Something Must Break / Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Torture scene (part 2)

She wakes with a start, mouth dry and body shaking. She’s disoriented, and when she lifts her head, she hopes to find her bedroom—posters on the wall, clothes on the floor, podcast playing on her phone; _safe in bed_ —but all she finds is Strade leering at her from across the room.

 

“Oh, you’re… mhf... awake.” He says, shoving the last of whatever he’s chewing on into his mouth. He crumples the wrapper it was in, letting it drop unceremoniously to the floor. She thinks she’s starting to understand why the basement is covered in stains…

“So, all rested up?” Strade’s mouth is open while he chews and talks. She tries to ignore it, which is made easier when he steps forward. He reaches into his pocket and she forgets all about him chewing with his mouth open, more concerned with what he’s going to pull out.

“Hungry?” He asks, pulling out a colourfully-packaged rectangle. She relaxes. It’s just food. Her stomach twists. With a pang of nausea, she realizes just how hungry she is—absolutely fucking starving.

“Yes!” She whines slightly, making Strade grin. He unwraps the bar, silver wrap crinkling as he goes. It’s a granola bar of some sort, she feels her mouth salivate at the thought of its tasty cronch. Crunchy dried oats, maybe some raisins, and—

“Wait. Is there _nuts_ in it?”

Her voice rises, and she curses herself internally for sounding scared. Strade pauses, looking momentarily confused by the sudden change in mood. Then it dawns on him, the reason for her sudden fear.

“You’re allergic, huh?” Strade states, his lip quirked into a one-sided grin.

“I can’t eat it if there’s nuts in it—where is my bag— _Ihaveanepipen_ ,” she rushes through her sentence, words running together. Allergies. She hates having allergies. She doesn’t even think of her epipen usually—she always just carries it on her. But now…

“Must be pretty bad if you gotta carry one on you, yeah?” Strade crouches before her, the bar still in his hand.

“I had a reaction once… had to go to the hospital.” She doesn’t want to think about that memory, but the words spill out anyways. She feels clammy with fear-wrought sweat as she remembers the red itchiness of her skin, the way she struggled to breathe, the immense feeling of dread— _the fear of death._

“That’s rough, buddy.”

Strade is grinning at her, his amber eyes shining near gold. She can’t tell what he’s thinking about, but from what she can imagine, he’s likely thinking about shoving the granola bar down her throat and watching her choke to death.

“You’re in luck,” Strade says, squinting at the ingredient list on the back of the wrapper. He sets his gaze on her again and she feels her chest grow tight from the intensity. “There’s no nuts.”

She blinks.

“You still hungry?” He holds the granola bar out to her mouth. She doesn’t even hesitate, leaning forward and tearing into the soft rectangle with her teeth. She chews and swallows, trying to ignore the weirdness she feels from having Strade feed her. She tears into it again, teeth gnashing the oats and what’s either raisins or cranberries, and for a brief moment, she thinks she tastes almonds. She freezes.

“There’s no nuts.” Strade repeats, his tone slightly mocking. She inhales as deep as she can through her nose, then swallows. Panicking about a potential almond can give the same reaction as actually eating one, and she doesn’t need that. Taking another bite, she tries to focus on the taste. There’s not even a hint of almonds this time, thankfully, but the taste does seem familiar…

“Did you get these from Costco?” She asks, shifting to chew on the left side so she can speak.

Strade blinks, then bursts out laughing—a deep, howling kind of laugh—as if she’s just told a great joke. He tilts his head forward to catch his breath, half wheezing from having laughed so hard. She doesn’t get what’s so funny.

“Here.” Strade pulls the wrapper down further, exposing what’s left of the bar. She uses her teeth to grab the remainder, and with a tilt of her head, deftly pops the rest of it into her mouth. She chews, watching as he crumples the wrapper like he did with the previous, letting this one also drop to the floor.

Strade then reaches out, ruffling her hair in a fleeting display of affection. Mouth full, she inhales in surprise—then coughs when the granola tries to go down her windpipe. Strade chuckles, her face suddenly burning hot.

“You know, I really feel like we’re getting to know each other.” He tells her cheerily. He smiles, and for a brief moment it seems almost friendly, right before it stretches too far across his face and becomes a predatory grin.

“Are you scared?” He asks, suddenly leaning forward. She must have made a face.

She swallows, and in an attempt at bravado, glares at him.

“Hmm, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were… I mean, look what’s already happened…” Strade muses, looking humored at her response.

His hand drops to her thigh, hovering threateningly over the stitches. She watches with gritted teeth, waiting to breathe—to see what he does. He locks eyes with her just as he presses his fingers to the closed, but raw wound. She flinches, but manages to hold back the yelp that threatens to leave her mouth.

“I find this process really helps me to get to know people,” Strade sighs as he stands.

“I mean, I already know so much about you…” He  chuckles and turns, walking over to the other side of the room. He stops in front of the toolbench, his back to her.

“So... hammer or drill?” He asks, turning to look over his shoulder.

She squints in confusion, trying to figure out what he’s gaining by asking this question.

“Hammer….?” She asks, hoping for clarification.  Strade only grins in response, sending a shiver down her spine. He turns back, moving something on the toolbench. She hears pieces of metal clink together after he pops off what sounds like the lid of a tupperware  container. She cranes her head, trying to see what he’s doing, but Strade makes a better door than a window. Sweat forms on the back of her neck, anxiety settling into her stomach over being unable to see what he’s doing.

“What… what are you doing?”

“I thought I’d give you a choice... To make this situation a little easier.” He turns his head to face her, eyes flashing as he holds out the hammer in his hand, “Give you more… _control._ So, I let you pick what happens next...”

He steps towards her, hammer in hand. Her breathing speeds up, chest tight.

“Are you scared now…?” He asks, crouching by her feet as he places a short wooden board under the arc of her foot. He drags the head teasingly over her foot, the metal cold and unforgiving against her skin. She curls her toes, anticipating what a hammer to her feet might feel like. Broken bones under skin—shifting and splintering under pained muscle. She’s never broken a bone, and can barely imagine what it feels like... not to mention, she needs to be able to walk if she ever gets the chance to escape.

“Plea… Please, not my feet!” She pleads earnestly. Strade pauses, tilting his head as he regards her. He looks at the hammer, back at her foot, then back to her face, eyes narrowed in thought. She watches him with baited breath. _Not the hammer! Anything but the hammer!_ She doesn’t want the drill either—she just wants him to let her go.

“Alright, no feet.” Strade agrees with a grin, putting the hammer down. She exhales finally, relieved at stalling him. Maybe she can find a way to reason with him if she isn’t sobbing through pain. But Strade grins wider and pulls out his knife, moving to cut the zip-tie that holds her right wrist to the metal pole. His grip is tight as he pulls her forward, forcing her into an awkward position with her other arm attached to the pole and his boot on her freed wrist.

“You have beautiful hands,” he tells her. She feels her stomach drop as Strade picks up the hammer again, pressing his weight as he kneels down. She winces, watching the hammer with wide eyes, certain he’s going to crush her hand, splinter her nailbeds, pry her nails from her bleeding fingers with the claw of the hammer and his hands.

“No, no no no, please! I need my han—“ She begs, rubbing her wrist raw against the concrete floor as she tries to get out from under his boot. Strade ignores her, placing the earlier piece of wood under her palm. To her horror, she watches as he pulls a large hardwood nail from his pocket. She can feel the point of the nail digging into her skin when he places it. She inhales sharply, choking on spit.

Time stops as he fixes her with a manic grin right before he drives the hammer down, sending the nail straight into her skin, breaking her bones and setting her nerves aflame. She shrieks pathetically, throat going raw as he brings the hammer down again and again. What feels like years passes before he finally steps off of her wrist. She breathes shallowly, trying to not hyperventilate as she looks at the mess of her hand where the nail sticks out, resisting the urge to flex her fingers to make sure her hand still _works_.

“Magst du es, Liebling?“ Strade croons, watching her. She looks up at him, eyes welling with tears as she starts to sob.

“Nein!” She wails, using what little German she can think to say as if it will make a difference. Strade blinks, looking surprised by her sudden code-switch.

“Sprichst du Deutsch?” He says, testing her. She stares at him, still sobbing, as she tries to piece together the words fast enough to answer before he gets impatient.

“...mein Oma spricht Deutsch,” She finally manages to choke out between sobs. Strade merely cocks his head, looking pleased at the sudden revelation that she can at least partially understand him.

“Weine nicht,” He says, kneeling before her at eye level. She cries still, avoiding his gaze as she focuses on the continued stinging in her hand. She wants none of his fake kindness.

With a huff, Strade grabs her by the jaw, forcing her head back against the metal pole with enough force to knock her bleary. She stares at him, wide eyed. He looks at her like he wants to eat her alive.

“Weine nicht,” He repeats as he wraps his other hand around her wrist, his foot against the wooden board. Panic blooms in her stomach as she guesses his next move—  “Scream.”

Wrist in hand, he pulls upwards, taking her impaled hand with the movement. She screams, feeling the large flathead of the nail briefly lodge before it rips right through, between her bones and tendons. Strade brings her hand to her face and holds it there as she watches the gaping wound in her palm bleed.

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

Her stomach twists in knots, vision going blurry as Strade takes her silence as permission to ram his finger through the hole like stigmata. She whimpers in pain, closing her eyes tight.

Her hand is bleeding, fingers wet and slick with red. When he removes his finger and pulls her hand to his mouth, she watches with detached fixation. She feels disgust as he pops her finger into his mouth, resisting the urge to gag at the feeling of his tongue and lips against her skin. Her face is burning—she wants to die, and yet doesn’t at the same time—and when she feels Strade’s teeth pressing against her flesh, against the bone, she’s reminded with sudden horror that the human jaw possesses enough strength to cut through a finger like baby carrots.

She laughs shakily.

Strade, for all his credit, doesn’t tear her finger from her hand. He merely drags it from between his teeth before continuing with the rest. She sweats, realizing just how dirty she feels—that in another situation, she would probably enjoy the sensation leagues more than she is now. She laughs again, feeling strangely surreal.

“What’s so funny, buddy?” Strade asks. She’s struck by his likeness to a dog with a bone, except _she’s_ the bone, and this _dog_ is likely willing to tear open her skull with his claws and teeth to get his answer if she doesn’t tell him.

“Did you know the human jaw has enough force to be able to cut through a finger, but the only reason we can’t bite our fingers off is because the brain stops us?” She responds, the words falling out of her mouth in a jumble.

Strade furrows his eyebrows and gives her a quizzical look. He looks like an idiot— _a dummkopf_ —and she feels the strong urge to tell him so. Unfortunately, he is not an idiot, and she knows the only reason he’s looking at her so weirdly is because he expected anything but what she just said to come out of her mouth. She wonders if she’s going crazy because she keeps speaking—keeps talking. She’s just filling the silence with words so she can’t scream; he can’t make her scream if she keeps talking.

“You can place a lightbulb in your mouth easily, but because of the shape, it’s hard to get out. It gets locked behind the teeth and forcing it will usually just break the glass.” She blubbers, tears running down her face.

She imagines it—Strade force-feeding her a lightbulb, only to rip it from her mouth with such force that the glass shatters. Shards down her throat, lodged in her tongue, bleeding and bleeding until there’s nothing but red and she’s breathing copper, drowning in it with each attempt to fill her lungs, her heart stuttering against ribs. _Can Strade hear it?_ She tries to inhale, but there’s no air; there’s nothing to breathe but blood. Her heart is pounding and she can’t breathe. She’s drowning! She’s dying, she’s fucking dying in this blood-covered crypt of a basement—drowning in her own blood! _Chest too tight!_ Heart hammering, trying to escape, _can she cut it out? Will he cut it out if she asks? Rip it from her chest with his knife and his hands so that she can brea—_

A snap of fingers draws her attention back into herself. She coughs, inhaling shakily. Strade is staring at her intently as she wakes from her stupor, realizing that she’s not dead, but she could be very soon.

“I thought I lost you there, buddy.” Strade says, a kindness to his voice that she knows is fake, but wants to desperately believe.

“I don’t want to die...” She replies.

“You don’t want to die…” Strade repeats with a frown. His gaze is intense, drawing her in. For a moment, she wonders if he feels sympathy for her. That hope is dashed the moment she feels a sharp pain in her hand. She shrieks, twisting her head to find Strade having stabbed his knife into her wounded hand, right through the centre of the hole. She sobs, vision blurry as Strade leans into her face.

 

All she can see is his grin as he speaks, “Wir haben erst begonnen, liebling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations of German:
> 
> Magst du es? - Do you like it?
> 
> Nein - No
> 
> Sprichst du Deutsch? - You speak german? (Do you speak german?)
> 
> Mein Oma spricht Deustch - My Oma (grandma) speaks german
> 
> Weine nicht - Don't cry
> 
> dummkopf - idiot
> 
> Wir haben erst begonnen - We've only just started


End file.
